


cure for the cold

by strawberrv



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Clothed Sex, Dry Humping, Frottage, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Winter, idolverse, non-au, set during boss mv filming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:27:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25837258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrv/pseuds/strawberrv
Summary: ukrainian winters are unforgiving, as it turns out. sicheng and taeyong do their best to keep warm.
Relationships: Dong Si Cheng | WinWin/Lee Taeyong
Comments: 1
Kudos: 77





	cure for the cold

**Author's Note:**

> hewwo!!!! this was prompted by my dearest sig, [ ghosttopiary ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosttopiary/pseuds/ghosttopiary) on ao3! thank you so much sig!!
> 
> minor tw: eating disorder ment. very small! observations of unhealthy eating habits & thinness, but really just passing mentions having to do with being an idol hehe.
> 
> thank you again sig!!!! i rly hope you enjoy it!! <3333

the first thing sicheng notices when he steps off the plane and into ukraine is, predictably, the _cold._ he shivers, wrapping his puffer jacket more tightly about his middle.

“just zip it, cheng-ah,” jaehyun says, ruffling his hair as he moves past him down the ramp into the airport. sicheng sighs, almost expecting his breath to turn to steam though they’re not quite outside yet. the airport proper is bustling with business people, tall, pale women with sharp noses, men with narrow faces, frost-blue eyes and fur-lined coats and red noses. sicheng glances around at their small group of members and a few staff, shrinks back into them a little.

it’s five a.m. ukrainian time, apparently, and of course it’s straight to the filming location, so whatever winks of sleep they managed to catch on the plane will have to do for the next fourteen-ish hours. sicheng sighs again, once he’s stepped out of the car, and this time his breath does condense and cool in front of him; it’s not air but rather dragon-like smoke that he breathes out of his nostrils. the seven of them gather up, huddled, in the snow in front of the building they’ll be filming in. taeyong shuffles forward a little, and they all look at him, miserably cold. his own teeth are chattering until he clenches his jaw shut and blinks hard, shifting around on his feet to keep moving.

“a-alright everyone, let’s give the shooting our best effort, yeah?” half-hearted agreements sound; sicheng thinks lucas might have actually fallen asleep standing. 

“guys!” taeyong says, voice dry and crackling in the freezing wind. he grits his teeth and pulls his hand out of his pocket, knuckles and fingertips an angry red, the back of his hand cracking in some places. sicheng winces in sympathy.

“nct,” he says it as an invitation, and lucas jerks alert, sticking his hand out in what seems to be pure muscle memory.

“FIGHTING!” they all scream, sort of half-desperate, as if they can only raise their voices through sheer willpower. sicheng’s lingual braces drag at his tongue, and he’s almost grateful for the sting, since everything else is completely numb.

the building is grand and massive, frescoes and murals painted onto walls and ceilings, some parts winding, some parts open, some parts with sharp corners where you don’t expect them. hair and makeup have set up in front of a large window, presumably for the natural light, and the girls stand shivering, clutching tiny brushes in their red fingers. the wardrobe isn’t as terrible as sicheng expects; he’d seen sketches of suit jackets with seemingly no shirt to accompany them at the concept meeting, but they gratefully accept their layered sweatshirts and jackets and jeans. lucas is seemingly completely rejuvenated, and is now bouncing around in front of the cameras, if a little shyly. jungwoo moves around the set like a ghost, wide-eyed and soft voiced. sicheng has spent so much time and effort getting to know the members he already does despite the language barrier, and he’s honestly not really interested in making new friends.

he’d seen them while training, of course, and he tried to chat with lucas at the beginning, but his mandarin is truly dismal, and sicheng’s cantonese is nonexistent, and when he’d tried his native wenzhou dialect lucas had looked at him with something like terror and pure stupefaction, so sicheng had given up. at least they’ll probably barely see each other after this promotion. it’s not like they’ll be in the same unit.

shooting is usual, stand there, look at the camera, don’t look at the camera, dance, dance, dance, change, dance. by four p.m. ukrainian time, the sun is setting, turning the sky a solemn pink and purple. they have a break. finally.

sicheng wanders around the building, staring at strange paintings of misshapen nineteenth century white people. he’s always thought ancient chinese art is objectively more beautiful, since there are a lot more animals and rivers and such, but he’s probably biased. jungwoo finds him in the room with all the chairs and the odd cyan light, and he tries to make small talk but sicheng just smiles and pretends he doesn’t understand. he wanders off back towards the camera staff, who are now setting up horizontal to a long, long table.

he gets a glimpse of red and finds taeyong sitting, slumped with a hot pack pressed to his cheek with one hand, staring at the footage they’d just shot on the camera monitor. sicheng sighs, goes over, swings a leg over taeyong’s lap, and sits down. taeyong’s glossy contact lenses move to look at sicheng.

“win-ah,” he says, syllables unfurling like relief on his tongue. 

“hyung,” sicheng replies.

taeyong’s mittened hand comes up to rub sicheng’s shoulder.

“cold?” he asks. sicheng shrugs. “did you like dinner?”

sicheng nods — the slavic food had been an odd but comforting amalgamation of grain breads, goat butter, tiny little spiced potatoes, and some sort of beef stew. it was warm and filling and sicheng couldn’t ask for much else from food. taeyong nods, “good.”

“let’s go warm up,” sicheng suggests, then stands and jerks his head for taeyong to follow.

they end up in the one of the rooms with particularly unique architecture; walls interrupted by jutting corners and the floor a mad series of little steps. a fresco covers the entire ceiling, and the light of the sunset is wan through a high window. taeyong goes over to one of the darkened alcoves and leans against the wall, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

sicheng leans next to him and gazes up at the fresco sprawling over the ceiling; cherubic infants and winged figures and haloed saints, all gilded, rose-cheeked, and heavenly. taeyong, by contrast, looks exhausted under the fine layer of makeup buffed onto his skin, the pigmentation of dark circles just barely visible, like shadows of fish in water. his cheekbones, always sharp, have been pulled forward; rather, his skin pulled back. the shape of his skull is a heart if a heart were anorexic. it’s not really shocking or unusual, but something about the cold… something about the cold makes taeyong look ever-frailer. not even quite in the traditional way — not that he looks feeble or sickly, but rather like a very expensive porcelain doll that might fall sideways at any moment because its limbs haven’t been positioned correctly on its shelf. sicheng watches his elbow-ball-joints creak as he lifts an arm. his knuckles graze the paint of the wall, and he drops it, hand hanging limp at his side.

they’re all exhausted, but taeyong is also included in that. and it’s worse, because taeyong cares. like, a lot. sicheng doesn’t really understand it; this is just their job, and it’s mostly unfair and sometimes amazing, no need to look more deeply, but taeyong — well. when sicheng presses his cheek to taeyong’s chest at night in the dorms, his soul is there, just under his sternum, humming innocent and bright. summarily: he cares. it radiates, makes the rest of them care, at least for that moment. sicheng pushes off from the wall and crouches, presses his cheek there, now. taeyong’s fingers automatically thread through his stiffened hair; hairspray dries like ice in below zero temps, didn’t you know, but the pressure on his scalp is nice. 

sicheng’s always thought taeyong is beautiful, and taeyong _is_ beautiful, beautiful and tired and, sometimes, he is sicheng’s.

sicheng rights himself, and kisses taeyong, unambiguously licking into his mouth. taeyong lets him, arms limply circling sicheng’s waist. taeyong tastes earthy and sweet, and sicheng realizes it’s the beet soup he ate earlier, something with a guttural sounding name in ukrainian. sicheng sucks the flavor off his tongue, from his teeth. taeyong exhales something like relief, hiking his leg up sicheng’s side until sicheng grabs his thigh, pressing their hips together.

“mm,” taeyong says, and sicheng pulls away for him to say, “underwear, my suitcase is in the van. we can change.”

sicheng nods and gets back to his honest work of kissing, biting taeyong’s lips, knowing the metal of his braces will rub and catch. 

“makeup noonas will kill us,” taeyong murmurs as sicheng moves on to his neck, readjusting his grip on taeyong’s leg, but neither of them move to stop. sicheng likes taeyong like this, likes taking care of him like this. once, he’d told sicheng, “i like how neutral you are. i feel like i’m at the mercy of an angel when i blow you.”

well, sicheng doesn’t know about that, but he knows taeyong could be an angel, not just a boring one with wings, but one of those scary ones, covered in eyes and so bright your face melts if you look at it directly. _yes,_ he thinks, nosing up taeyong’s sharp jaw, _face-meltingly beautiful._

he feels taeyong’s cock, a hard line in his jeans, rubbing against his own. he yanks the fabric of taeyong’s shirt out of his jeans, puts his chilled hands against the flat planes of him. concave where he shouldn’t be. taeyong pants, head hitting the wall again, fingers tangled in sicheng’s clothes and hair, tangled in sicheng. 

sicheng rocks them together at a steady pace, taeyong pushed softly into the wall again and again, soft little _“mm, ahh,”s_ escaping his wet mouth. sicheng pulls his head up to check, and taeyong still has his eyes closed, so sicheng says, “look,” and taeyong’s eyelids slide open, gaze fixing on the painted ceiling.

“see?” sicheng says, kissing behind his ear.

“delight in the divinity,” he says, in mandarin. taeyong moans sweetly.

in korean, “i have faith. i am devoted, hyung,” and he pulls back to find those hazy eyes, that curve of cheekbone, that sturdy, rooted nose. kisses these bones, these heart-shaped bones.

taeyong goes pink and red, splotchy on his neck, sweat beading at his hairline, and he clutches at sicheng’s shoulders. faster, faster, sicheng presses their bodies together, again and again. the pressure is maddening, their cores hot while their fingers stay frostbitten, a disconcerting dichotomy in the body.

“i’m, i’m—” taeyong says, then comes, cock pulsing against sicheng’s thigh, hot, hand on his neck, cold.

his breath is smoke, floating up towards the angels on the ceiling. sicheng ducks his head and sucks at the skin under his jaw, and taeyong lifts his leg slightly for sicheng to rut against, and it’s not long before sicheng is shuddering against him, coming hot in his underwear.

“ugh,” he says, and taeyong pets his hair, smooths his jacket down his back.

“let’s change, now, before they come looking for us.”

sicheng pants, letting the last dregs of pleasure shake through him. he says, “mm.”

they stumble out to the other members getting makeup touched up, but no one seems to have noticed their absence. taeyong gets the keys to the van from their manager, and after they change and bury the soiled clothes deep in their travel bags, they sit in front of the car’s vents, letting the hot air blow over them. taeyong leans his head on sicheng’s shoulder.

their reverie is broken by mark sliding open the passenger door with a loud bang, and exclaiming, “wh-what the fuck!! cheaters, oh my god. y-you should be out here s-suffering with the, the rest of us,” he says, through chattering teeth. sicheng snorts and laughs into taeyong’s hair. taeyong says something like, “started filming again?” his voice vibrating against sicheng’s shoulder.

mark mutters a negative, so taeyong opens his arm and lets mark burrow into him, slamming the door closed behind him. together, they huddle in front of the heating, warm, at least, for the moment.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! <3 
> 
> find me on twitter:  
> [ main ](https://twitter.com/lookslikerain) [fic acc ](https://twitter.com/rouxberrv)


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